


Blue Hoodie

by Olddaydreams



Series: A Small List of Things That I Normally Would Hide [2]
Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss Of Comfort Item, M/M, People Can Be Short But Still Muscular, Punk Tom, Short Tord, Tom Has A Motorcycle, Tom Is A String Bean, Tom Is An Oblivious Idiot, Tom Is Attached To His Hoodie, Tom's Dad Is A Shit, Tord Is Also Kinda Buff, Tord Is Really Sweet Don't Tell Him I Said That, Tord's Mom Is Amazing, comfort item, highschool, references to parental abuse, tall tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 20:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12020079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olddaydreams/pseuds/Olddaydreams
Summary: Tom's hoodie meant the world to him. It was the most important possession he owned, even above Suzan. He'd had his hoodie on his best days and his darkest ones.





	1. Chapter 1

His hoodie. Where the fuck was his hoodie? This couldn't be happening. He never lost his hoodie. He rarely even took it off. But he couldn't find it. He’d already torn his room apart looking for it. It just wasn't there. And Tom didn't know how to deal with that.

His heart was racing. He wanted to throw up. His brain was little better than a bowl of over cooked oatmeal. Everything was foggy. His thoughts were racing faster than he could think them. He was focused. But also not. He wasn't making sense. Nothing was making sense.

_God damn it._

_Fuck._

Tom was shaking.

He didn’t need this right now. He needed to get up. He needed to leave before Dad woke up. It was just a hoodie. It wasn’t worth risking a run in with his father.

Tom felt paralyzed.

He needed that hoodie. It was dumb. It didn’t make sense. But he needed it.

His thoughts were messy and confused. Trying to remember where he’d left it was beginning to feel pointless.

He’d been drunk last night.

Not the kind of drunk he was every other fucking night, but _drunk_.

Tom pushed down his panic and willed himself to remember. He had to. He didn’t have a choice.  

Then it hit him.

Edd begging Tom to join him and Matt at Tord’s after class. Being physically dragged there that afternoon. Drinking way more than usual. Laughing and… the rest was a blur.

 _It has to be there,_ Tom realized.  _I must have left it at Tord’s last night._

Sweet relief rushed through his system as he ran out the door. Tom hopped on his shitty motorcycle. For once the thing started up without issue, the first lucky he’d had all morning.

The world around him blurred and faded, the revs of the motorcycle filled his ears and for a moment there was nothing else.

Then the moment was over. Tom hit the brakes too hard and he found himself being flung off his bike.

It took a few seconds for Tom to collect himself. His head pounded and fresh scrapes decorated his arm. Tom stumbled to his feet, achy but not as bad as he could have been.

He eyed his bike, laying toppled over on the pavement. The damn thing was probably going to need to get fixed. “Again,” he groaned, picking his bike up and propping it up in the driveway.

Tom sauntered to the front door and hesitated. It was ass o’clock a.m. What the fuck was he doing? He didn’t even know if Tord was awake yet. He hadn’t thought any of this through. He should go. But that wasn’t what he did. Instead, Tom raised his hand to knock before thinking better of it and pulling out his phone and sending Tord a text.

Then he waited.

And he waited.

And waited.

And…

God damn it, this was taking too long.

Tom wasn't willing to stand out in the bitter fucking cold and wait for Tord to get off his ass and reply. Which meant he had no choice but to call him.

The phone rang for what felt like an eternity before Tord picked up. “...Hello?”

“Hey,” Tom grumbled. “Look out your window.” He bit his lip, tension building in his gut.

Tord's head appeared in the window above him a few seconds later. “What are you doing here so early friend?”

Tom let out a huff and ran his fingers through his hair. “I think I left my hoodie at your house last night.”

“Uh, Tom…” Tord trailed off uncertainty.

“Please Tord, can you just let me look for it?” Tom pleaded, “It should be in your room. I won't take long, I swear. Come on, please, I'll just-”

“Calm down Tom,” Tord sighed. “I'll be down in a moment.”

True to his word, Tom heard Tord’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs a few seconds later. The door swung open, startling Tom. Which was stupid because he'd known it was coming.

For a moment, Tord just stood there, staring at Tom’s scrapes and bruises. “Tom… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tom muttered bitterly as he pushed past Tord.

Tom was quickly lost in a torrent of thought and desperation. Finding his hoodie was the only thing he could think about. He didn’t hear Tord’s footsteps following him up the stairs. Nor did Tom see him standing in the doorway as he tore through the room searching for his sweatshirt.

Tord’s room wasn't a messy one like his. That meant there weren't many places to look. Before he knew it, Tom had already looked everywhere he could imagine himself leaving it. But he still hadn't found it. With that realization came a cold rushes of panic. This couldn't be happening. It had to be here. His hoodie could just be _gone_. That was impossible. Tom didn't care anymore, he began shoveling through Tord’s dresser, looking in his closet, under his bed, anywhere he hadn't looked yet.

But it wasn't there.

He was searching every conceivable corner of that room and it wasn't there.

Tom almost wanted to cry.

“Tom?” Tord asked from the doorway, jerking Tom out of this thoughts. “Tom, are you okay?”

Tom couldn't find the words. He tried again and again but his voice seemed to have deserted him, leaving Tom to silently stare at the Norwegian boy.

Tord approached him slowly, and on some distant level Tom registered that he was was showered and dressed. He hadn't been before. Had Tom been there that long?

“Tom… it's going to be alright.” Tord was now standing in front of him with only a few feet between the two of them. Tom felt surprised by this, but he couldn't understand why. “We’ll figure something out, yeah?”

“Can I look in your car?” The words were tumbling out of Tom’s mouth before he could stop them. 

The question was ridiculous. They hadn't even been in Tord’s car last night. But for some reason that was beyond Tom’s understanding, Tord said “Yes.”

Tom could feel his muscles tensing as Tord fished through his pocket. Panicked energy raced through his veins, making his heart beat ten times faster and his lungs strained against his ribs. I took every ounce of willpower he had to keep himself from shoving his hand into Tord's pocket and grabbing the keys himself. God damn it why was Tord so slow. His pocket couldn't be _that_ big.

Finally he found his keys, and held them out for Tom.

A few seconds passed.

Then, Tom finally snapped out of his daze and snatched the keys from Tord's hand. He dashed out of the house, not even bothering to try and hide his panic.

The old sedan shook as Tom came careening into it, the panicked boy having decided to stick out his hands and let the car stop him instead of slowing down like a normal person. He could vaguely hear Tord scolding from behind him but it hardly phased him. Tom unlocked the car, swinging open the door before diving head first back into another desperate attempt to find his hoodie. He dug through the shit Tord had laying in the back seat; admittedly less than there would have been had it been Tom's car, but still.

Then he saw it.

At the other end of the car he saw it.

He did know how it got there but, fuck it, he didn't care.

Tom was flooded with relief as he reached over the seats and grabbed his hoodie.

A second later that feeling was snuffed out and replaced by something far more cold and empty.

This wasn't his hoodie. It was the black one Tord would wear nearly constantly a few years ago. It the black had faded over the years and there were holes at the ends of the sleeves.

Tom stood, staring at the hoodie he held out in front of him. All the panic, the energy, the hope, it all drained out of him. Tom was left shaken and out of options.

His hoodie might as well be gone.

Tord slowly walked over. His eyes were flooded with concerned, but they lacked the frustration Tom was used to seeing along side it. Granted, it was a look he usually was given after Tord had to bail him out of yet another fight. But this time the concern was accompanied by something else, something Tom couldn't identify.

“Tom?” Tord murmured.

Tom didn't respond, still somewhat transfixed by the hoodie he'd mistaken for his own.

“Come on Tom, let’s get back inside,” he cooed, gently nudging Tom back towards the house. “I'm guessing you won't bother to clean out those scratches unless someone makes you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Tom clutched Tord’s old hoodie as he was led back inside. He didn't have the will to resist. If he had, he would have told Tord to fuck off. After all, he'd felt had worse before and was more than capable of taking care of himself. But Tom did none of those things. The world felt too distant and Tom felt too numb to protest. It was almost like Tom's hoodie had been the only thing keeping him grounded reality.

It was pathetic.

A stupid god damn hoodie was the only thing keeping him from losing his shit.

Without it, he was a mess. Tom could hardly keep track of what was happening around him, opting to comply with Tord over having to think about what he was doing. Everything was too far away for him to bother.

Tom's ears were ringing.

His vision was becoming grainy, like an old television with a shitty signal.

Tord was talking to him. Tom could hear his friend’s voice, but his words and the meaning behind them were lost to him.

“Agh,” Tom growled, thrust back into by his cheek suddenly burning like a mother fuck.

He was sitting on Tord's bathroom counter, his shirt was off, and Tord was-

His shirt was off.

_Fuck._

Tom had _willingly_ taken his shirt off.

He hadn't even thought twice about it.

_Shit._

_Crap._

_Fuck. Damn._

Tom scrambled off the counter, shoving Tord out of the way.

He stood panting in the doorway, his eyes wide as he clutched Tord's old hoodie to his chest. “What the fuck is going on,” he demanded.

Tord stared at him in bewilderment. “Tom... I was just disinfecting your cuts.” Frustration crept into his voice as he continued, “I even warned you that it would sting Jackoff.”

_Well fuck me running with an axe._

Normally, Tord would be patching him up after a fight, which gave Tom an excuse for his other injuries. That wasn't an option this time. His last fight had been a while ago, definitely not recently enough to explain the nasty bruises forming on his stomach and chest.

_Fuck._

He had to do something.

He couldn't.

He couldn't let Tord find out.

He couldn't let him find out about his dad.

He couldn't do it.

It was too risky.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_What if it's already too late?_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Tom _.”_ Tord's stern voice snapped Tom out of his panic. The man sighed. “Tom please calm down. Everything is fine.”

But it wasn't.

It wasn't fine at all.

Tom knew it wasn't.

His father had caught Tom out of his room a few nights ago.

Tom knew better than to let that happen.

He'd been careless.

At least his father had been too drunk to do anything worse than a couple bruises. 

But now Tord had seen them.

He probably was going to want an explanation.

 _No,_ Tom scolded himself. _I need to calm the fuck down and play it off as nothing. It's fine. Everything is fucking fine._

Tom muttered an apology as he awkwardly climbed back on the counter.

“It's fine,” Tord sighed as he got back to work cleaning out Tom’s scratches. “But if you don't mind, could you explain what the everloving hell got into you just now?”

“I…” Tom trailed off, searching for an explanation that would make sense. “I got distracted, and, I guess, I hadn't thought about it but-”

He was actually doing this wasn’t he.

Tom let out a shaky breath as he lowered Tord’s hoodie from his chest, revealing the bruises coloring his ribs.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” he whispered, eyes locked on the floor.

Tord scoffed.

That sad excuse for a malfunctioning chair fucking _scoffed_.

_What the hell?_

“I'm well aware that you get into fights Thomas,” he drawled. “It’s not like you can hide it when I have to bail you out of most of them you idiot.”

_Oh._

“Save it Fuck Cake,” Tom spat. “It’s too god damn early for your brand of cock-shit." 

_He thought it was from a fight._

Tord laughed. It was loud, snorty, and unashamed, not too different from the man himself.

There was one upside to Tom’s reputation as a troublemaker. It got him out of explaining most of the injuries he got, courtesy of his loving father. 

“Where did all these scratches come from Tom?” Tord asked once he composed himself. “I know they aren't from a fight, they're too fresh.”

Tom sighed.

“I fell off my shitty bike.”

Tord stopped and looked at Tom. “Are you going to be okay?” He asked, eyeing him over. “Christ, how fast were you going Jackass?”

“It's fine. I'm fine Tord,” Tom groaned. “Sheesh. I just hit the brakes a little too hard when I was pulling up to your- Ow!” Tom tore his arm out of Tord’s grasp.

Tord rolled his eyes. “Don't be such a baby Thomas. It's just disinfectant; you know this Tom. I know you're a smart guy deep, deep, _deep,_ down.”

“Fuck off,” Tom spat. “And don't call me Thomas.” 

Tord chuckled but otherwise ignored him. “So, I guess this means I'll have to look over your bike again this week.”

“Yeah,” Tom sighed. “I guess I don't have a choice. Don't want it breaking down on the way to school... _again._ ”

“You wound me Thomas,” the Norwegian teased. “You almost make it seem like you don't enjoy your visits. In fact, I'm almost inclined to think that you think of them as, dare I say… a burden.” 

“They _are_ a burden you half-assed pile of perverted shit soup”

Tord burst out laughing, much to Tom's chagrin.

 _What a fucking masochist,_ Tom thought bitterly.

Despite Tord being such an unbearable asshole,Tom was able to relax for the first time that morning. Bickering with Tord was almost relieving in a strange way. Or at the very least, it was a nice distraction.

 

* * *

 

“Tom, are you sure you do not want some breakfast before you leave?” Tord’s mother asked for the fourth time since she’d come downstairs.

“Thank you for offering Mrs. Larsson, but I’m good.” Tom said.

She turned to Tord. “Fortell din venn han trenger å spise mer, han er en tynn gutt.”

"Jeg skal prøve mitt beste, Mamma,” Tord sighed. “Han hører ikke på meg."  

The two of began chatting in their mother tongue. Tom had no idea what either them were saying, but he doubted it was anything too terrible though. Mrs. Larsson had always been kind to him. On any other day, Tom would've been glad to have her kindness, even if he rarely took her up on what she offered, but today he just didn't have the energy for it.

Tom wasn't sure what to do with himself. Tord had already patched him up, and it was clear that wherever his hoodie ended up, it wasn't here. He had nothing left to do here.

“Hey Tom,” Tord broke away from the conversation with his mother and walked over to the table. He seemed nervous, a look Tom hadn't seen the Norwegian wear often. “If you want, you can borrow the hoodie you found in my car,” he said gesturing to the black sweatshirt in Tom’s hands. “I know it’s not the same but-”

“Thanks,” Tom cut him off, as he pulled the hoodie over his head. He didn't care that it was Tord’s, or that it smelt like motor oil and smoke. It was good enough, much better than having to go to school in just his t-shirt.

“Oh. Uh, alright then.” Tord replied, stifling a laugh as he looked Tom over.

Tom glared. “Can it, you perverted rotting shit sack.”

Tord immediately gave up trying to spare Tom’s dignity, and went into a fullon laugh.

“Fuck you!” Tom growled.

Tom could feel his cheeks flushing.

He should have thought this through.

Tord was a short stack, only five foot eight, but he was a sturdy mother fucker. He had broad shoulders and the kind of muscles that Tom could only dream of having. There was a reason Tord was the one bailing him out of all the fights he got into.

Tom, on the other hand, was tall. He had a good two or three inches on Tord at least. He was thin and wiry. The polar opposite of Tord.

Normally, this didn't cause any problems, but today wasn't a normal day. 

The hoodie was a good three or four inches too short. To make it worse, it was also quite baggy.

Tom looked ridiculous.

But he wasn't going to give it back.

Not a chance.

"Han ser veldig søt ut i din gamle genser, Tord," Mrs. Larsson chuckled.

"Han gjør,” Tord scoffed in response. “Ikke fortell ham, jeg vil aldri høre slutten av det."

Tom had no idea what either of them were saying, but he had a feeling it was about him.

He needed to get going.

It was too late to run back home and pick up his things, his dad would be up by now, but he could at least try to make it to class on time. Besides, it was beginning to feel like he was intruding on Tord and his mother. 

“I think I’m going to head out,” Tom said, before standing up and heading toward the door.

“Wait.” Tom stopped and glanced at Tord, who cleared his throat before continuing. “If you want I can drive you to school.”

“I'll pass,” Tom replied.

“Are you sure?” Tord asked. “It's no trouble at all. Besides, you don't want your bike to break down on your way to school.”

“It's _fine_ ,” Tom groaned. “That bike’s been through worse, and you know it. I'll survive.”

And with that, he left.


	3. Chapter 3

Tom dug through his locker. With his backpack at home, he was hoping he'd left his homework at school instead of taking it with him. Unfortunately, that was not the case. There were some crumpled old notes and some pencils, but nothing useful. 

_ This day keeps getting better and better, _ Tom thought in frustration.

There was a gasp. “Tom?”

The man in question turned to find Edd jogging down the hallway.

“Jeez,” Edd sighed, looking Tom over. “I almost didn't recognize you without your blue hoodie and spikey jacket.”

Tom chuckled.

He and Edd had known eachother since primary school. Tom loved the guy, even if he was a rusty dickass at times. Edd was the shortest of the group, to the point that Tord had taken to picking Edd up and carrying him around campus. In short, Edd was a huggable pile of dork dressed in a green hoodie and a goofy grin. 

Edd narrowed his eyes, inspecting Tom more closely. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Had a rough morning,” Tom grumbled.

“No shit,” Edd bit back, rolling his eyes. “Tom, what happened? Seriously, you look like you've been dragged through Hell.” 

“I'm fine Edd,” Tom persisted. “I fell off my bike on the way to school this morning, it’s nothing.”

Edd sighed and gave in. “Fine, whatever you say.”

Tom smiled and gave him a playful shove.

_ Crisis averted. _

 

* * *

 

Tom could feel the curious glances of his classmates as he sauntered into class. Most of them weren't even subtle about it. It was annoying.

Try as he might to ignore the stares and hushed conversations, Tom was actually aware of his surroundings. It got to the point where he couldn't concentrate on the lecture because he was too busy mentally cataloging side conversations and glances cast his way. He couldn't even relax enough to take a fucking nap. 

And what, all this over a mother fucking hoodie?

It was pathetic.

Tom couldn't deny it though. Even if his classmates were still staring and whispering about him, if he'd had his hoodie he would be fine.

_ Fuck. _

Tom just wanted to go home. He wanted to find his hoodie so he could get back to being fucking normal.

 

* * *

 

Edd, Matt, and Tord had already grabbed a table when Tom wandered into the cafeteria.

“Hey Tom!” Matt greeted him cheerfully.

Tom admired the amount of energy the guy seemed to have. It was like he never got tired.

“Hello Matt,” Tom grumbled as he too a seat next to Edd. 

He was fucking done with everything.

_ Sorry folks, looks like that's all the energy for today. Better luck next time! _

“Ugh.”

Edd looked Tom over. “Where's your lunch?” he asked narrowing his eyes.

“At home.” Tom grumbled burying his head in his arms on the table. 

“ _ Tom,”  _ h e chided.

“I know, I know…”

Edd sighed and passed Tom some extra food he brought with him in case of emergencies. It wasn't much, but it was enough to help Tom get his energy back.

“Wait a second Tom…” Matt piped up. “Isn't that Tord’s old hoodie?” 

Everyone fell silent and stared at Tom.

Then at Tord.

Then at Tom again.

Tom sat, gaping at Matt in shock. What could he even say to that? After all, Matt was right.

“Oh my god, it is!” Edd gasped before he burst out laughing.

Tom's face grew hot. “Shut up!”

“I can't believe this,” he chuckled. “How did I miss that?”

Matt seemed lost as to what was so funny about the situation. The same could be said for Tom in fact. Confusion, maybe even a baffled chuckle, he would have understood, but full on laughter?

Tom cast a spare glance at Tord. To his relief, Tord seemed to be hating this just as much as he was. 

“Cut it out,” the Norwegian grumbled, his face buried in his hands. 

Finally, Edd’s laughter began to die down. “Alright, alright. I won't give you a hard time.”

 

* * *

 

The screen door creaked as it swung shut behind Tom. 

He froze. 

His heart pounded in his ears.

Tom prayed to dear fucking god that his father was passed out in his recliner.

The house was silent.

There was no angry drunken muttering, no heavy footsteps coming from down the hall, and no snoring in the living room. It was completely silent save for Tom’s shaky breaths.

He slowly crept to the living room, anxiety churning in his stomach. Tom had no idea what he might be walking into, and that terrified him. 

The living room was empty.

_ Holy fuck. _

His dad wasn’t home. 

_ Thank fucking god. _

Tom stared at his father’s empty recliner for a moment in stunned relief before heading to his room. He needed to stay focused. He needed to find his hoodie.

Fucking hell, Tom’s room was a mess. Admittedly, his room had always been a cluttered clusterfuck, but this was far worse than usual. His clothes were strewn across the floor, over the pre existing layer of old papers, dirty laundry, and empty bottles of liquor. Quite honestly, his room looked like it had been hit by a tornado. 

Tom stared at the chaos. He was so tired. He just wanted to crawl into his unmade bed and pass out, but he needed to find his hoodie first. There was no way he could have another day like today. He couldn’t bare the-

_ Wait. _

His eyes widened 

_ Is that…? _

Tom slowly walked to the foot of his bed, his eyes locked on the blue fabric draped over the bed frame. Hesitantly, he picked it up and held it out in front of him.

_ Oh my god, it is. _

His hoodie had been sitting there this whole time. For a moment, he just stared at it, torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to cry. How the fuck had he missed it? It had been right under his nose the whole time. He’d just… missed it. 

Without a second to lose, he took off Tord’s loaner, and replaced it with his own hoodie.  A fresh wave of relief and exhaustion flooded his body. He finally had it back. 

Tom grabbed Tomme Bear and flopped into bed. 

Today… Today had been something, that was for sure.

His thoughts wandered back to that morning. Tord had been so… nice to him. It was surprising. The little piece of fuck had even gone as far as to lend him his old hoodie. Part of Tom wondered if he knew how much that meant to him. He probably didn’t. Tom felt like he should do something to thank… somehow. He wasn’t sure. His emotions were a convoluted mess and his thoughts were hardly any better.

Tord was confusing.

After a few more failed attempts to organize his thoughts, Tom realized it was wasted effort. He let his eyes drift shut and drifted to sleep, snuggled in his blue hoodie.

 


End file.
